Sunlight on the Steps

(This is the story of my grandfather. He was a strong-willed man who always thought that he would be able to deal with anything and everything that came his way. And he did, too—including the death of his son—till he came face-to-face with Alzheimer’s. It snatched away everything that he held dear—his wife, his memories, his dignity, his self-respect, his pride. The grandfather I knew lives today only in people’s memories—what remains is an empty shell, devoid of spirit, soul, and life.)

He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was fast asleep, the covers drawn over her shoulders. They were sleeping in separate beds these days. From where he lay, he could see her, dimly in the wispy moonlight creeping into the room through the white gauze curtains. He could hear her better—her raspy breathing the only noise breaking the monotony of the soft ticking of the pendulum clock.

She was sleeping with her mouth open—deep and drug-induced. The drugs had given her sleep, but had taken away her dreams. He looked over her through the window at the river. The waning moon and the ripples reminded him of another river and another house by its side where he had met her for the first time. These days, memories were not his to command—most didn’t come when he called for them. He knew he had lost many along the way, and that he had no way of going back.

He had accepted that fact with a weariness that came after many lost battles. He felt trapped in the middle of a jungle, with a dense fog settling in around him—and the only thing left to do was labor forward looking around and behind him in the hope of seeing something that was even vaguely familiar.

But some memories had none of that haziness. This was one of them. It was the day of the pooram. He had just graduated from college and had gone to visit his Ammavan at their tharavadu. He didn’t remember how she had looked that day—he didn’t remember her big, beautiful, kajol-rimmed eyes, or her short and curved nose, or her soft tresses, or the wonderful white and red pavada that she had worn that day—all of that had been erased from his memories a long time back. But he clearly remembered Ammavan’s raised voice, and then her voice; calm, composed, but firm and stubborn.

Was she stubborn with him as well? How was she with their children? He fought and lost another battle with his brain—nothing remained there that told him what sort of a person she really was. This was one battle he fought again and again—even when he knew what the outcome was going to be. The fact that he couldn’t recollect anything about her as a person—her idiosyncrasies, her smile, what made her mad, what made her happy, did she read, or sing or dance, did she like to take bath in the morning or the evening, was she religious, did she like sambar or rasam more, did she cry when she watched movies, did she plait her hair or did she favor the kulipinnal more, how did she laugh, what did she like to eat—all of this and many more were lost to him. And that made this scrap of memory that much more dear to him.

“What is there to argue? She is a widow and widows can’t come to the temple today—pooram or not.” Ammavan was shouting at the top of his baritone voice. And when the whole family stood voiceless, obedient, eyes to the floor, he heard her say—“If Bhagavathy doesn’t want Cheriamma to come see her, then I don’t think I want to see that Bhagavathy.”

Ammavan’s slap cut her short, throwing her to the corner of the room, where she hit her head on something sharp. She didn’t wipe the blood dripping from her forehead or from her lips. He wondered why this memory stayed, when all the others had chosen to abandon him—maybe this was when he fell in love with her. He was sure that there were a lot of other memories—both bad and good, that they had made together. He was also sure, even though he had forgotten everything else about her, about how he felt toward her. The why didn’t seem to matter as long as he could have that feeling to cling on to.

He got up slowly from his bed and trundled toward the bathroom. He didn’t think that he’d be able to get any sleep tonight. In the pale light of the setting moon, he could see his son smiling at him from the photo on his desk. That was another memory that refused to go away. He had tried to forget this one, had tried to relegate it to the dungeons that the other memories had been unceremoniously dumped by the powers that be. But this one refused to go. He didn’t remember a lot about his son; the games that they used to play, his son’s family, even his name was lost to him—but the picture of his funeral pyre refused to go.

That seemed like a long time ago. Her wails had struck him like poison barbs, and there was nothing he could say or do to calm her down. He had refused to break down that day and had been the man in charge, like he always was, like everyone else always wanted him to be. Her Alzheimer’s had become worse after that and in a matter of another year, she had lost everything she held dear—her memories, her relationships, and all that made her what she was. The last two years were not kind to him, too; today they were just walking, breathing bodies—with an empty and soulless void for a mind.

He came back and sat on the bed—tense, listening, and waiting for her sniffs and coughs to subside. The dawn was breaking and soon the house would be up. He looked dreamily through the window and let his gaze fall on the river. The rising sun threw a soft haze on the rippling waters. He decided to lie down for a few hours more till someone came with his tea. He held the pillow close, turned his face toward her, and willed himself to remember something more. He would have been satisfied even with a tiny fragment, but the memories remained elusive. It was only when the pillow became damp that he became aware of his tears. He wondered why he was crying now. After all, he was happy—he still had her.

*Pooram=Annual temple festival. Quite a big deal in the community.

*Ammavan=Maternal uncle. Head of the extended family.

*Tharavadu=Family home.

*Pavada=Dress worn by women, similar to a skirt/wraparound.

*Kulipinnal=A style of tying hair.

*Bhagavathy=The female deity in whose honor the pooram is celebrated.

*Cheriamma=Maternal aunt.